those the Indians call the "Spirits Talons'." She continued, as though to herself, "They say the Road to the Villages of the Happy Dead leads over such rocks as those—rocks with a knife-like edge, upon which only the Good can keep their footing; the Bad fall off into an abyss of eternal torment."
His hysterical snarl brought her rudely to a stop.
"Stop talking that filthy savage rot! It can't frighten me!"
Her eyes grew wide in amazement. His voice rose in a crazy yell:
"I'm not afraid of 'spirits'! They can't hurt me—and men will say it was an accident! An accident!"
Madly he continued, repeating again and again, "An accident!"
Her hands mounted in futile gesture to her throat and she began to cough; gasping, terror laden words tumbling out between the spasms.
"You're making for the rocks on purpose—you know I can't swim—you mean to drown me—Roger—don't—Turn back—turn back—"
His voice and stroke beat on. "Accident—accident—"
The blood drained from her face, she clawed frantically at the gunwales—tried terribly to scream.
With a rending crash, the canoe splintered to matchwood on the razor-edged rocks.
Roger Benton swam to shore and fell, sobbing, to the ground. From far away, the savage chant in honor of the Moon of Falling Leaves—of dying things—still rose and fell. But he didn't hear it now. The sound of a canoe ripping upon sharp rocks was repeating over and over inside his mind. He was hearing again the horrible, choking struggles of a drowning woman. He was hearing again the words she'd cried before the waters closed about her—words that would reverberate within his brain forever:
"Oh, God—great gitche Manitou—Spirits of the Lake—" she'd prayed, "—punish—punish—punish—"
Up the rough path from the water's edge toiled the grim little cortege Roger Benton had been dreading for a week. He watched the two approaching Indians and their grisly burden from his bedroom window, then steeled his nerves for the inevitable knock upon his door. When it came, he almost screeched his answer.
The voice of Nahma, the old squaw who Bernice had engaged as housekeeper, replied, "Men of my tribe—they find Missis."
He quavered. "I'll be down."
How he managed to descend the stairs to the living room, he didn't know, nor how he forced his rebellious eyes to focus themselves on the horror before him. But he did manage, somehow.
His gaze took in the sodden divan, on which they'd placed her, huge spots of lake water darkening the upholstery; the dripping figure with gaping mouth and wide eyes staring out of a pulpy mask the weeds and moss that trailed from the streaming hair to the rug below.
And, in a corner of his chaotic mind a thought intruded that some element was missing from the scene. He searched for it vaguely.
It was the brisk little county coroner who, later that day, found it for him.
Wagging his head sympathetically as he prepared to leave after completion of his professional duties, "Folks round here were mighty shocked when they heard 'bout your accident on th' lake an' Mrs. Benton's drownin'. 'Course, we haven't known your wife long; but everyone who met her thought she was a mighty fine lady—th' Injuns especially." He paused, and looked thoughtfully at the floor. "Funny thing 'bout the slime, ain't it?"
